


Phoenix

by mellod89



Series: Definitions Series [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Definitions Series, F/M, Hero Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellod89/pseuds/mellod89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>phoenix or  ( US ) phenix  (ˈfiːnɪks) </p>
<p>— n</p>
<p>1. a legendary Arabian bird said to set fire to itself and rise anew from the ashes every 500 years</p>
<p>2. a person or thing of surpassing beauty or quality</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work in the Definitions Series. Each piece is a stand alone unless other wise stated and is based on the definition of the word(s) in the title. Each story comes with it's own tags and warnings please head them.

She stares at him again. Oh my God! Why does she stare at him? She can’t seem to help herself. Every time he walks into a room, or she hears his deep, lilting voice, her eyes become glued to his visage, taking in his tall, lanky form. She wonders what it is about him that makes her stare. She tries to pin point it, but she always comes up with a loss for words.

Is it his hair? She thinks. It’s a riot of bronze curls so tight and thick it could almost be a bird’s nest, and yet they look so soft that if she were to touch them, it would feel as if her hand was enveloped in a bed of silk. It’s changed color so many times over the years from its natural blond to the inkiest of blacks. He’s grown it long, so that the curls are more pronounced. He’s even cut it so short that that there’s the barest hint of a curl there. His hair has mesmerized her over the years, and yet she knows that this is not what makes her stare so often.

She thinks of his face, so open with childlike wonder. Every crease and every dimple betrays his every emotion. When he smiles, she becomes breathless. Each freckle and wrinkle radiates his pleasure as they crinkle and tighten around his eyes and mouth. When he’s saddened, his entire face sags and falls like a house buckling under the weight and pressure of a heavy snowfall. She can’t look at him then without feeling the world around her crumbling to dust. It’s his eyes, the crown jewels of his face. She thinks, so full of life and mystery. They suck her in and read her soul with every glance. She feels naked before his all-knowing eyes. He’s stripped her bare leaving her with nothing but her shame. It must be his eyes. They’re so captivating. She could lose herself in those pools of blue, never to come up from air, but there’s still this emptiness. Not yet. It whispers. You must look further. So she moves on solemnly, head bowed, shoulders sagging. 

His arms and hands are quite nice. They’re strong and soft, almost delicate. She wonders what it’d be like to grasp his hands. Are they as smooth and soft as they look or are they rough and hard? Would they stroke her softly like a delicate petal or would his touch be abrasive sand paper? They could easily crush her, drain every last ounce of her being, but they wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t. They’d give her pleasure, she hopes. Gentle, whispering touches that would wring out every last gasp and moan as he caressed her most intimate places. She would melt into his every stroke, body twisting and writhing, reshaping itself to conform to his single touch. How she longs to be wrapped in his arms, to feel the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. She feels his every breath, and those arms so strong would tighten about her, shielding her from the sharp winter air. Safe. That’s what those arms would make her feel. Safe and treasured. She smiles. If only that were it. The emptiness calls, and her heart sinks to the depths of the ocean. 

She wants to claw her face and scream. Each day she ponders what it is about him that’s driving her insane, and each day she falls short of an answer, and the emptiness aches a little more. Can’t you give me a hint? She cries, but she knows she won’t receive an answer. So she spends her time watching and waiting for the moment of epiphany. How could someone she barely knows make her feel so much? It’s an unfair torture. It drains her of every last ounce of spirit, and leaves her a dry crackling desert waiting for the land that is her heart to be replenished by the satisfying rain of answered questions.

Then out of nowhere one day her answer comes. His spirit. Her mind whispers. It startles her, and she gasps aloud. “That’s it!” Everyone in the vicinity stops to stare at her, and as she realizes, she closes up her laptop, quietly gathers up her things, and slinks away to a more private location. How could she not see it before? His very soul is what has her so enthralled with his presence. It fills her to the brim with so much hope and inspiration that it leaves her weightless and floating. Just his very presence can make her day turn from the brink of hell to her own personal heaven. He surrounds her with a blissful calm that’s present before the oncoming storm. He gives her hope that she can one day rise above the fallen tatters of the past to rebuild and claim a better future.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this on a sleepless night. It’s the first thing I’ve written in months and it felt really good to get this down on paper. It also felt really personal/intimate and made me blush in places even though there were no sexy times. Bit of hero worship for you.


End file.
